


Goldilocks and the three bears

by Waddler



Category: Goldilocks and the Three Bears (Fairy Tale)
Genre: Abuse, Incest, Rape, Sexual Slave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 20:21:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19363564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waddler/pseuds/Waddler
Summary: A rewrite of the classic fairy tale





	Goldilocks and the three bears

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware this is dark and morbid and horrible, this was written for a creative writing class assignment.

I’m running. No, I’m sprinting. I’m sprinting despite every ache and pain and cut and bruise and broken bone and every ounce of strain in my body that’s  _ begging _ me to stop and take a break. That’s because I  _ can’t _ take a break. I can’t stop. I have to keep riding this adrenaline fueled high for as long as I can before I pass out from exhaustion. I have to ignore the bleeding in my feet from the broken glass of bottles littered everywhere, I have to ignore the limp from my sprained knee, I have to ignore the briars scraping my naked body as I sprint past, I have to ignore everything. I can’t stop. I can’t let him find me. 

I’ve been running blind for what feels like ages. It was sundown when I left, and the sky was just turning to an orange and pink mix. I ran as it turned from a dark red filled with purples to a deep dusty blue, and to what it is now: pitch black with only the starts hidden by the forest canopy, casting eerie shadows as I pass by. Finally, I collapse.  I’m alone, and I’ve no clue where I am. The only sign that I’ve covered any distance at all is the lack of any and all light pollution except for what’s coming from the cabin up ahead.

My eyes shoot wide open. A cabin. Light. People. But… it can’t be. The house I was in was the only one around for miles. Still, there it is, right in front of me. I must be going insane, I think to myself. There’s no way. There’s no way there’s a warm inviting looking cabin in front of me, there’s no way there’s a car staring in front of it, there’s no way I’m watching it drive past me. There’s no way. There’s just no way. 

I repeat the mantra of what I know must be true I gather every last bit of will power and force myself off the ground.  I limp up the gravel road that I know isn’t there; that feels solid beneath me, with the mix of the sharp and smooth rocks under bleeding feet. I walk up to what must be a mirage, exhaustion plaguing me. I step up the wooden stairs that lift me higher and remind myself it isn’t real. I turn the imaginary door knob and open the nonexistent door and am hit with a rush of fake warm air and the smell of food that’s not actually there, yet despite being so sure, I run towards the smell. 

Three bowls full of I don't even know what are sitting on the table. I run to the, grab the first, and start shoveling the food into my mouth. It’s scolding hot and I eat so fast I can’t taste it. I don’t really feel as it blisters my mouth and scolds every part of my tongue, and eat it all faster than my stomach, small and unused to food after years of barely enough to survive, can take, and feel nauseous, but I ignore the feeling. I go to the second bowl and scarf it down just the same, barely noting that this one is freezing cold. Then the third bowl, eaten just as quickly and half way through horking it down, I puke. My stomach can’t take anymore and I’m doubling over next to the table throwing up all that I’d just taken in. 

After I finish painfully retching up the food, I limp my way to the living room. There’s a roaring fire lit and I sit in front of it, warming my frozen body and wishing I could just melt away into nothing. But that’s just not how it works. Instead, I make my way up into the largest of three rocking chairs. It’s hard seated and way too big and hard. I get up and move to the next chair hoping it’ll be a bit less stiff. This one is soft. Too soft. Softer than I’m used to and I sink down into it. It holds me like a warm embrace, like… when he would hold me… 

I bolt out of the chair and scrabble away from it. That memory replays in my mind. I hate it. I hate him. I can’t sit there. I stand on shaky legs with a whimper at both the pain and memory and work my way to the smallest chair, eyeing the 2nd one with hatred. As I take a seat in front of the fire, in the small chair, it’s heavenly. It’s not hard and stiff and like the first but it’s not too soft and encompassing like the second, it’s just right. 

I sit there for ages, enjoying the heat. I bask leisurely in the orange glow, feeling the heat on my skin. I’m not scared for once in my life. I feel safe and warm. This is the best I’ve felt since I was 9. Since before mom… 

I’m jerked out of my happy state by the jarring memory, the sound of the gun, the feel of the blood, her screams, his laugh. I remember it all like it just happened. It was horrible and traumatic. I remember the way he grabbed me by the arm and drug my upstairs to his room… 

I force myself to stop remembering . That was then. That was a long time ago. I’ve run so, so far. He won’t find me here. He can’t. I’m in a house far away. I’m safer than I’ve ever been, I remind myself as I stand. I head for the stairs. They’re a hassle to climb and torture on my already strained  body. It’s like climbing a mountain, but I do it. I climb until I get to a room three beds and three wardrobes. 

I go to the first wardrobe, open it, and yelp before closing it again. Flannel and jeans and work clothes that look just like what  _ he _ used to wear. I run to the next one and open it. These clothes look much better. I take out a shirt, slip it on, and it falls off. It’s so many sizes too big, but I guess that’s just what happens when you’ve been starved for almost your whole life. I head to the last dresser, and open it. Little kid clothes. Like the ones I wore before my life became hell. I smile and grab a pair of night clothes. They fit perfect. I smile at the fond memories they invoke and head to the beds. 

I crawl into the biggest one and it’s far too hard. It reminds me of the basement floor. I shudder and get up before moving to the next. It’s far too soft, and reminds me of his, father’s bed. I fall out in my haste to get away and get to the last bed. It’s… it’s just right. It’s exactly like the bed from when I was little. I lay down and rest my head on the pillows, and with that, I’m out like a light. 

  
  


There’s a loud scream. One of a woman. The crying of a child. The shouting of a man… a deep, gravely voice that scares the shit out of ma and makes me fall out of the bed pleading and sobbing for him to not touch me. I’m sobbing and crying and all of a sudden the screaming stops. I open my eyes and a man is pointing a gun at me. 

“Who ‘n th’ bloody hell are ya an’ what th’ hell’re you doin’ in my house?” He all but shouts. I flinch and sob harder, crying and begging. I can’t form coherent sentences, but I try to spew out a sentence that’s not gibberish between sobs. 

“M-my name i-is Gloria, I-I’m from a house somewhere nearby. I ran away from my father. He killed my mother when I was 9 and has been using me as a sex slave ever since.” 

The words flow in my head much smoother than they probably came out and I’m sure they only caught part of my sentences. Nonetheless, the looks of unabridged horror on their faces tells me they understood. 

  
  


What happens next is a blur of the family of three fussing over my injuries and asking me all sorts of questions. I’m taken to a hospital where the police are called. My statement is given and my wounds are patched up. My broken arm is properly set and I’m put in a room for the night. The next thing I know, I’m taken back to that cabin with the nice family. 

The door opens and we step inside. I’m promised that I can stay there as long as I need. They give me a tour of the house, ending with the living room. Everything is fine until then, when we see someone in the dad’s chair. It’s him. It’s  _ him. It’s him _ . Father is there holding a gun. He stands. And aims. He shoots the dad dead, then the mom. Their kid cries and I try to shield him, but it’s too late. I’m holding his dead body, leaning over his parents crying. Father looks at me and shakes his head. 

“What a shame.” He says. 

I see the barrell aim at me, there’s a loud bang, and everything goes black. 


End file.
